Rocking the Pink (17 page)

But Matthew, quite unlike me, didn't care what anyone else thought. He knew exactly who he was and what he wanted to do with his life. He knew his calling, and wild horses couldn't have kept him from it. (By the way, a decade later, Grandpa Wayne-o was prouder of Matt's success than anyone and made a point of telling me, “Laura Jill, the most important thing in life is to enjoy what you do.”)

On that night at my sister's Christmas party in 2007, I sat next to Matt, who by then had become a successful musician and rock star, and I told him enthusiastically about my newfound passion for songwriting.

“I can't get the songs out of my head,” I lamented. “They're driving me insane.”

“I can relate,” Matthew laughed. He suggested I come up to his studio in Seal Beach (about an hour and a half north of San Diego) to record a demo of a song or two. I thought my head might explode from sheer excitement, just like that bald guy's head in
Scanners.

About two weeks later, I found myself in Matt's garage studio, gazing into Matt's reassuring brown eyes and timidly singing, “Fly, fly, fly, my wings will take me there . . . ” as Brad looked on, nodding his encouragement. It was contemporaneously exhilarating and nerve-wracking to sing my songs out loud for other people. I felt exposed.

I had expected support and encouragement, of course—this was not a tough crowd—but I had not anticipated the explosion of excitement and praise that came my way.

“Wow, Cuz, I had no idea,” Matt enthused, surprised to see a whole new side of his tightly wound attorney cousin.

“Neither did I” was my honest reply.

Later that night, we recorded a demo of the song. Matt, musical genius that he is, played guitar, bass, and drums on the track, and then added harmonies to my lead vocals, just for good measure. It was a Herculean effort for one session. And yet when we finished up the song a few hours later, Matt took a deep breath and said, “Okay, Cuz, you want to do another one?”

And so it was that, on one of the most joyous nights of my entire life, two songs that had previously existed only in my head—“Fly, Fly, Fly” and “Girl Like This”—became audible in the real world. In a flash, I realized I'd been living in Dorothy's black-and-white Kansas for the past decade. But thanks to Matt, I waltzed right through the front door and into Technicolor Oz.

On the drive home from Seal Beach, Brad and I listened gleefully, over and over again, to the two demos Matt and I had created that night. The recording process itself had been utterly thrilling for
both of us, and each time we listened to the songs, we relived that rush again. But, in addition to experiencing the sensation of bringing my songs to life, Brad and I were blown away by the actual finished product. We weren't sure, and we knew we were biased, but . . . it seemed like these songs were pretty good.

“They're better than most of the songs I hear on the radio,” Brad declared.

The next morning, when we played the songs for the girls, they were effusive with praise.

“Oh, Mommy! That is so good!” they squeaked.

And when I emailed the songs to Rob and Jann, my brothers in Cool Band Luke, they were over-the-top enthusiastic. Same thing with Dad and my good friend Pete at work. My confidence was building.

Finally, bunco night arrived and I played “Fly, Fly, Fly” for the Bunco Girls. Their reaction was as if I'd discovered a golden ticket in a Willy Wonka chocolate bar.

“You need to do this!” Bunco Girl Tiffanie commanded, as the others bum-rushed me with excited congratulations.

By the time I left bunco that night, my unrelenting desire had become an obsession. I was now a rabid dog, trotting down the street and frothing at the mouth:
Record . . . album . . . now!

Two weeks after my first chemo infusion, it was time to get back on the horse. My cousin Matthew was in the midst of recording an album with his band, but for me, he traded a recording session for a chemo session. As the nurse led Brad, Matt, and me past the rows of cancer patients receiving infusions, all the way to my designated Barcalounger on the far end, Matt's eyes widened and his jaw clenched. As the bright red fluid entered my body through my port, a flurry of emotions flitted across his expressive face like a scrolling news ticker: fear . . . love . . . worry . . . anguish. Heartbreak.

The whirs and beeps of the chemo monitors and the scattered conversations of other patients filled the room. Matthew pulled out his acoustic guitar and began to play one of my songs, “Daddy's Little Angels,” which he and I had composed together in my living room the night before
.
I was surprised to hear my own voice, unchanged and joyful as ever, emerging from my throat and singing the words to my song. As my body was anchored to the Barcalounger by a chemo IV, my soul flew around the chemo lounge, full of joy to be set free once again. For a moment, I forgot where I was, and that I was fighting to save my life.

When my eyelids began to feel heavy and flickered shut, Matthew quietly began singing Sam Cooke's “Wonderful World.” His earnest voice was warm and comforting, like a fuzzy blanket. At the end of the song, the nurses and patients quietly applauded and asked for more. Music had proven itself to be the shortest distance between Matthew and every person in that room.

Back at home, I crawled into bed to await the inevitable post-infusion pain.

“Bye, Cuz,” I whispered, as he leaned over to kiss me. “Matt, your music was such a gift today. And not just for me—for all the other patients, too. Thank you.”

Matthew's big, soulful eyes were moist. “Cuz, I'm the one who received the gift today.”

It didn't take long: I felt the nausea at my door within an hour, banging furiously like an angry beast, but the new antinausea meds Dr. Hampshire had prescribed me were a thick, bolted door keeping the monster out. Instead of the nausea this time around, I felt searing bone pain and can't-lift-my-head weakness.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.
This was worse than the first time around.

Dr. Hampshire explained that the toxins from the first infusion had already settled into my system, and that with each subsequent infusion, my body tissue would become more and more overloaded. “With each chemo infusion,” Dr. Hampshire warned, “it will get harder and harder.”

All I could do was lie in bed with Buster by my side, not sleeping, yet not able to move, either. I was stranded in bed like poor James Caan in
Misery.
And chemotherapy was my ankle-breaking Kathy Bates.
My number-one fan.

On the fourth day, Mom and Sharon came over to care for me. The three of us lay in bed together, just like the old days (except that in the old days, Mom's younger daughter wasn't listless and writhing in pain).

After our bit of nostalgic three-way bonding, Sharon got up and busied herself with my laundry while Mom went downstairs to make me scrambled eggs and dry toast.

“I can't eat it, Mom,” I mumbled when Mom put the aromatic plate of food under my nose. “I'm so sick, Mom. I can't do it.” Indeed, I felt as if my body were made of lifeless cardboard.

“You have to eat, sweetie,” Mom coaxed. Tears were in her eyes. “
I need you to get better.”

I was about to console her, when she added, “If you don't get better, who's going to take care of me in my old age?”

There was an awkward silence for a moment as I tried to decide if Mom was joking or not. Finally I mumbled, “Wow, Mom. For some reason, that just doesn't motivate me.”

Mom burst out laughing. As usual.

Suddenly, I was back in her Honda, learning to drive a stick shift at age fifteen. I was in the driver's seat at a red light, as she reminded me what to do when the light turned green.

Yeah, yeah, I know,
I told her.

But when the light turned green, I stalled the car. And I could not get that car to move. Cars behind us started to honk vigorously as the light went from green to yellow and back to red. I became frantic amid the din of angry horns.

And what was Mom doing this whole time? Laughing. So hard that tears ran down her face. She could have yelled at me, or demanded to switch seats so she could get us out of there in a jiffy. But no, she just enjoyed the ride, stalled though it was.

And now here she was, spooning scrambled eggs into her ailing daughter's mouth—trying desperately to enjoy the stalled ride. The strain on her face told me she wasn't succeeding.

A few days later, my hair fell out, just as Dr. Hampshire had
predicted. When I brushed my teeth, little hairs fell into the sink. When I showered, hairs covered the drain. When I woke up, hairs dusted my pillowcase.

Jane and I wrote to each other almost daily to track the “progress” of our hair loss:

“I am a mangy dog.”

“More hairs on the pillowcase this morning.”

“Each shower is a fantastical journey of hair loss.”

“Scratched my head and six hairs came out.”

“Brushed it and the hairbrush was full.”

“I am a Gregorian monk.”

“I am Squidward in
SpongeBob SquarePants.”

“I am one of the ESP triplets in the goo in
Minority Report.”

Brad had been getting a kick out of rubbing my shaved head like a good-luck charm, but now I had to tell him to stop. My scalp hurt too much. Instead, I came up with a new game for him to play:

“Brad, come here,” I beckoned. “Pinch some of my hairs.”

Brad gamely pinched a lock of my short hair with his index finger and thumb, and then gasped as the hairs came out of my scalp like a knife pulled from warm butter.

It was oddly addictive. “Can I do it again?” he asked. “That's kinda fun.”

“Knock yourself out, babe.”

Having a dream didn't mean I knew how to make it a reality. Producing an album with my cousin Matthew simply wasn't an option. He was touring almost constantly with his band; plus, he had several side projects that consumed his spare time. And I didn't want to rely on anyone's goodwill, anyway. It was imperative to get this thing done right now. I was consumed with an inexplicable sense of life-or-death urgency: I had to record an album before it was too late.

My online research revealed that there were countless professional recording studios and producers to choose from in San Diego and beyond. How would I be able to discern the “real deal” producers from the poseurs and con artists? It was intimidating. I called several studios and talked to their resident producers. Mostly they were nice enough, and clearly knowledgeable about music and recording, but my gut instinct told me to move on. Then I saw that
one of the local studios boasted a Grammy-nominated producer named Steve Wetherbee. That certainly caught my attention, so I called and spoke with Steve for about half an hour. I was impressed by his obvious love of music, and also by his warmth and sincerity. When he invited me to come down to his studio to talk in person, I didn't hesitate.

Walking into Steve's studio felt like entering a church. It was the kind of studio you see in music videos, where the producer sits at a massive control panel riddled with countless levers and buttons while, on the other side of a Plexiglas wall, a recording artist sings into a grapefruit-size microphone.

This is where the magic happens,
I thought.

I played my two demos for Steve, and he complimented my voice and songwriting, as well as Matt's musicianship.

“Do you have any more demos?” Steve asked.

“No,” I told him. “The rest of the songs are in my head.”

“How many additional songs are we talking about here?”

“Maybe . . . ten?” I answered.

Steve seemed intrigued. “Will you sing them for me?”

Pushing my nerves aside, I sat down on a stool and proceeded to sing every one of the songs that had been bouncing around in my head for months. After each song, I offered details I had imagined: “On this one,” I explained, “I hear a violin line like
this,”
and then I hummed. “And on this one,” I continued, “I'm thinking sort of a Bonnie Raitt feel, with a guitar riff sort of like
this.”

Steve said my songs were catchy and memorable and my voice was unique. And, he added, the song structures were really strong—quite
surprising for a neophyte songwriter. “You should make an album of these songs.”